


One Of Us Is Gonna Die Young

by ellipeps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angel!Castiel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Askepop, F/M, Greaser!Dean, Heavy Angst, Inspired by a Movie, Inspired by a Musical, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipeps/pseuds/ellipeps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a man falling in love with someone he's never met. The story of another man falling in love with a man who died in his arms. The story of finding a family when it's least expected and discovering life isn't awful. The story of how a man began to pray and how the other learned to listen. A story of soulmates, angels, humans and most of all, true love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration struck when I watched the Danish film Askepop, and I've borrowed some elements from it. 
> 
> Maybe some of you recognise this, I posted the prologue as a one-shot a while back. Since then I've cleaned it up and I have it all planned out. Expect sporadic updates, I'll try and not be super slow, but I won't promise anything either. Hope you enjoy!

Living in a university town like Lawrence is hell. Dean knows he isn’t smart, that he isn’t something special. He has graduated high school, barely, and now he works with his father doing odd jobs here and there, fixing cars, paint jobs, some constructions. Everything and nothing. More nothing than everything these days, but he doesn’t complain. But it’s not exactly like he fits in with the others his age.

He had been three when his father left for the other side of the world to fight a war that seemed so impossibly distant Dean couldn’t believe it was actually happening. It still feels distant, even if they have the untold threats from the Russians hanging over their heads. He had been nine when his father returned home, physically undamaged, psychologically beyond repair. He had been ten when his mother died in a fire, doing nothing to help with his father’s slow recovery. The only thing John Winchester finds comforting is the hard liquor or the occasional bar fight. How that makes him feel better is beyond Dean’s comprehension. Perhaps the purpose isn’t to feel better, but rather to feel nothing at all. Dean can understand that, he knows that feeling as good as anyone.

And now here he is, twenty years old, taking care of his father all alone, no one to help him. Sometimes he longs for siblings, but then again he doesn’t want anyone to go through the shit he’s been put through, ever. So perhaps it’s for the best that Mary and John only got one son. One shitty, unintelligent, greaser douche of a son who really wants to be a singer. And that not taking the fact that Dean has had a few adventures with some men in dark alleyways into account. Not that John knows about Dean’s preferences. No one does. God, if anyone found out, that’d be feeding the local gossip for a long time.

“What are you thinking about, son?” John asks, effectively putting a stop to Dean’s daydreaming about desperate kisses and rough grinding in a dark corner smelling of smoke and whiskey. Dean snaps his head up and looks at his father sitting across from him on their usual shack, The Roadhouse, where Dean helps out sometimes. Mrs. Harvelle, the owner, sends them a look, as if to see if something’s up. Dean knows she just cares, but sometimes it’s too much, people caring about him. Or at least pretending to.

“Huh? Oh, nothing really,” Dean answers, taking a sip of his coke, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. He doesn’t know what else to say. The truth would get him killed, he knows that much. His father is a conservative if ever there was one. Dean can’t really understand why. He’s heard the stories about what men did during the war. The probability that his father had been one of those men weren’t that big, but when a man’s desperate…

“Don’t lie to me, Dean, I know you like I know the back of my hand, son. What are you thinking?” his father prods, and Dean sighs. He’ll have to settle for an almost-lie then.

“I was just thinking about perhaps getting the Elvis album when it comes out, if we get a turntable like we talked about-” he mumbles, actually telling the truth, partly. That’s just not the prime reason for wanting the Elvis album. He’s had a crush on him since the first time he saw the artist. It’s just not possible to look _that_ good. And sing like that on top of it. If only Dean could find someone like that…  Or if he could _be_ someone like that… Like Elvis or James Dean. Popular, talented, famous.

“You know what I think of that music, Dean. You shouldn’t listen to that, and you surely won’t play any Elvis under my roof,” his father interrupts. Dean just nods. Yeah, he knows. In the Winchester house all that ever plays on their 78 rpm gramophone is Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. Just because it had been his mother’s favorites. Dean is convinced Mary would’ve loved Elvis. He had spent almost five years alone with her, only seeing his father for Christmas three of those years. So he ought to know.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, Dean avoiding the looks thrown at him from his father as well as those from Mrs. Harvelle, and his father drinking two more beers, already starting for the day. As they’re sitting in their old ratty pickup half an hour later John finally snaps, even if Dean hasn't said anything more about Elvis, or James Dean for that matter.

“Dean, I’ve told you. No Elvis, none of those stupid clothes, and that hair thing you’re doing. No one will ever think you’re respectable, and by default think that I’m unrespectable. So no more of that, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says automatically and self-consciously straightens out his white T-shirt underneath his black leather jacket. He knows his dad isn’t really a fan of the whole greaser thing, but Dean loves it. Ever since he saw _Rebel Without A Cause_ last year he’s been hooked, wanting that James Dean look. And to be honest, it looks good on him. He knows it does. But apparently it doesn’t look proper and it’s “impractical” or something. John would prefer it if he wore plain old blue jeans and plaid shirts, no tight jeans, no white shirts visible, his hair cut army style.

“Dean, I’m serious, I-”

John slams the breaks, but too late. The man crossing the street is too close, too slow, John is too slow, too fast at the same time and Dean sees it all in slow motion. A young man, around his own age, looks up and meets Dean’s eyes, a surprised look on his face, right before the fender hits him over the knees and sends him flying over the windshield, head cracking ugly against the glass. The car comes to a halt and the man slides down the hood, falling down onto the street in a heap.

“Fuck,” Dean screams and he can’t breathe, can’t think. The blue eyes burned into his retinas, the sound of the man’s head hitting the glass of the windshield, the way he just collapsed. It’s all too much, it can’t be real. His father just killed a man. He let his father drive after drinking. He saw his father killing someone. How- What should he do now?

He looks over to his father who sits paralyzed by the wheel, gripping it so tight his knuckles turns white. His composed, war-machine father is in shock. Dean throws himself out of the car, he needs air. He stumbles out of the car and onto the street and takes a deep breath, which doesn’t help that much. Air, he needs air. He can’t breathe. His neck hurts from when it got snapped back by the impact, his hands ache after clutching the dashboard so hard he thought it might fall to pieces.

With his hands running through his hair, he turns around and sees the man lying in front of the car, blood trickling down the side of his face. Dean runs over and bends down and sees that the man is still breathing. Thank God. It’s the small things in life, right?

“Hey, just hang on, okay?” he says, moving to cradle the man against his chest, murmuring quietly, trying to be reassuring, like he’s seen mothers with their children. Dean looks down at the man, and now he sees he can’t be much older than Dean himself. A year, maybe two. He’s wearing a suit and a trench coat, not really Dean’s cup of tea, a bit nerdy, but it looks right on him. Which is idiotic to think about when it comes to a man actually dying in his arms. The man gasps and blinks a few times, opening his eyes slowly. They’re impossibly blue, like the summer sky or ocean or some shit like that. Dean has never seen anything like it. And he feels like he never has to search again for the definition of beauty. Looking into those eyes feels like coming home.

“Hey, you’re going to be fine now, alright?” Dean says, can’t help the tears that start stinging in his eyes when the man gasps again and almost shakes violently in his arms.

“Are- are you- D-Dean Win-Winchester?” the man asks feebly, coughing up some blood that runs down from the corner of his mouth, meeting the stream of blood still running down from his temple. Dean nods and tries to stroke the blood away with his thumb, but it doesn’t help, it just keeps on coming. The man reaches to dig in his pocket, but his arm falls heavy to the ground again.

“How do you know my name?” Dean asks as he reaches into the man’s pocket, finding nothing but a piece of string. The man doesn’t answer with nothing other than a shudder and Dean pulls the string out of the pocket. On it hangs an amulet, an ugly face of sorts, with horns.

“That’s- f-for you, Dean, I’ve been- waiting a l-long time to g-give that to you,” the dying man says, and smiles faintly.

“What? What is this?”

“Show this- when you find Sam- Wesson. H-he’s your b-brother,” the young man says weakly before his body finally goes lax in Dean’s arms and his head lolls to the side, resting against Dean, blood trickling down, colouring Dean’s white T-shirt red.

“No, no- Don’t die, no! Man, hey- stay awake for me, okay? Don’t- I need to-“ Dean feels salty tears running down his cheeks and a heavy body weighing him down where he sits uncomfortably, pain radiating from his neck down his back, but he just can’t move. A brother? He's got a brother?

He sits there, looking down at the beautiful dead man in his arms until the ambulance arrives, forcing him to let go. He pockets the strange amulet before they can take it from him, feels it burn through the lining of his jacket and through his T-shirt.

Sam. He needs to find Sam.


	2. (We're In) Different Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from (We're In) Different Places by Weeping Willows.

_It’s cold. Very cold. Uncomfortably cold in fact. And white. And soft-?_

_Castiel blinks a few times more, just to be sure. The last thing he remembers is finally finding Dean Winchester. No, wait. The last thing he remembers is green. Green eyes. Dean’s green eyes? Oh and now he remembers the pain. Paralyzing pain, pain without a center, pain everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. And then Dean, again. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close. Taking away some of the pain. Or perhaps just making him forget it._

_“Oh look who’s decided to join the living,” a voice says from beside him. He tries to lift his head, but he can’t yet, so he just closes his eyes again._

_“Stop it, Gabriel, that’s not funny,” another one replies, a woman this time. Castiel feels a slender hand on his forehead, it would be soothing if it hadn’t been even colder than the ground._

_“Castiel?” the feminine voice says and he blinks his eyes open again, looking up into a beautiful face, framed by red locks. The woman smiles down at him and he frowns as he looks up at her. Who is she? And how come she knows his name? It’s actually a bit ironic. Seconds ago he had been lying in Dean’s arms and Dean had asked him how he knew Dean’s name, and now here he is, lying in someone else’s arms, wondering how they know his name ._

_“W-where am I?” he finally stutters, a shiver wrecking through his body, jerking him suddenly from the cold, soft ground._

_“You’re-“ the woman begins, and sends a questioning look to the man on the other side of Castiel, who nods, before continuing, “you are in Heaven, Castiel.”_

_“Pardon?” he says, thinking that there must be some mistake. He can’t be in Heaven. Heaven? Like the place where dead people go? Where the angels are? That doesn’t sound inconspicuous at all. It’s a ridiculous thought anyway. He’s just found Dean. He can’t be dead. He’s been looking for him for two years. Dead? No, no, that would just be cruel._

_“You heard her Cassie, you’re in Heaven, and yes that’s where the dead people go, and where the angels are and yes it’s not fair, yes it’s cruel. So, we done here or what? I’m freezing my ass off out here,” the male says and rolls his eyes, blowing a bubble with his gum._

_“Gabriel,” the woman snaps, and shoots him a reprimanding look. Gabriel shrugs and picks himself up from the ground, walking away towards a house a few yards away._

_“I’m Anael,” the woman says and helps him up, “and that is Gabriel. We’re Angels of the Lord.”_

_Castiel stares at her. Angels?_ _In Heaven? In a cold, soft, white Heaven? With a house? What is this? Someone must be playing tricks with him. Or perhaps he’s still at the hospital, pumped full with ether. Yes, that must be it._

_“I’m sorry Castiel, I know it can’t be easy,” she says sadly and leads the way, following Gabriel, “it never is for the young.”_

_What is never easy? Dying? Probably not. But surely, he can’t be-? There’s so much more he has to do, he has to find Dean again and tell him about-_

_“Oh shut up, Cassie, stop thinking so loud!” Gabriel yells from inside the house and Castiel stops dead in his tracks. Apparently these ‘Angels of the Lord’ can hear his thoughts._

_“Yes, Castiel, we can,” Anael says over her shoulder and opens the door, ushering him inside. It’s only a one room house, sort of like the hunting cabin he spent a week in with his parents in the Rocky Mountains when he was a child. Just as cold. And actually very dirty. Not exactly a marble palace._

_“If this is Heaven, where is everyone?” Castiel asks and looks over at Gabriel, dressed in a white toga just as Anael, but also wearing a hat, gloves and a huge knitted scarf, huddled up in front of a large fireplace._

_“You mean the dead peeps or the Angels?” comes the muttered reply and Castiel frowns._

_“I guess I mean both?”_

_“Oh, well, Heaven is huge. And you were assigned to Anna and I, so here you are,” Gabriel says and warms his hands in front of the fire._

_“Assigned to? Does that mean that I’m also an Angel?” Castiel asks and looks over his shoulder, as if to look for white fluffy wings. He turns his head back to Gabriel when the Angel laughs heartily and Anael, no Anna?, rolls her eyes fondly._

_“Every single time,” Gabriel laughs, “every single time someone new comes they think they’ll just poof up here and get a set of wings. Yeah, my ass you will. You’re on probation Cassie.”_

_Castiel doesn’t understand anything anymore. He’s in Heaven, with Angels, but he himself is not an Angel? And he’s alone in Heaven with said Angels. And one of them is annoying. And the other one is almost intimidating. And they can both hear his thoughts. So he should probably stop thinking about them._

_He can think about Dean instead. Beautiful Dean, whose picture he’s had for two years, looking at every night before falling asleep. Dean who he had searched for, heard stories about. Dean, who he had come to love so strongly without even meeting him. Or perhaps he had just loved the illusion Dean. And not the real Dean. Now he never would be able to find out._

_“You can see him again, Castiel,” Anael says and places a light hand on his shoulder, “just not right now.”_

*** Dean ***

He’d been released from the hospital the same day, the doctor had just told him not to work too hard to so he won’t strain his neck. Not that he’s listening, he can’t afford not to work. Right now he’s at the Roadhouse after closing hours, cleaning up.

Sweeping the floors at the Roadhouse isn’t the funniest of Dean’s chores, but it’s hell of a lot better than cleaning out the toilets. It’s mindless, and he can finally think clearly. But the last few days all he’s been able to think about is the amulet hanging around his neck. And the man who gave it to him.

The man that knew his name. The man that died in his arms. It feels like the man took a part of Dean with him when he died. Which is completely insane and probably the same reaction anyone would have if a stranger dies in your arms, right? Of course he can’t be expected to think straight when a random guy died in his arms after telling him he has a younger brother? Right?

Speaking of which, where does one begin to look for a lost brother? At the Library? At the Police? Dean just feels lost, but he has to start somewhere, so as he wipes the floor he decides that the Library might be a good place to start. Tomorrow. 

His father has been assigned treatment for his problems and Dean has been left on his own. He still hasn’t been to see him, wouldn’t know what to say, what to ask. He's going to try and find Sam on his own and get answers before confronting his father. So for the moment he just thinks it’s nice to get a break from his father for once. It gives him space to think and time to play his music. During late nights at the Roadhouse when he’s all alone at the bar he finds Mrs. Harvelle’s old guitar and plays a bit for himself.

Sometimes he even pretends he’s Elvis or perhaps that new young singer, Frankie Lymon, even if Frankie is only thirteen years old… _Why Do Fools Fall in Love_ is one of Dean’s favourite songs. He remembers seeing Frankie and the Teenagers on the television one night on the [Frankie Laine ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q96ylFiQK_I)show, and that kid had so much charisma and an amazing voice. Dean wishes he could be like that. But now here he is, sweeping the floors at the old diner, thinking about a man who died in his arms and the brother he never knew he had. Funny how life is almost never… funny. It just sucks.

He puts away his broom and picks up the rag for polishing the bar. Mrs. Harvelle won’t let him work for her again unless the place is spotless when he leaves.

As he works his way from one end to the other of the bar he hums along to the jukebox playing in the far corner, Elvis deep voice a balm for his nerves. If only his father could understand, music is what makes Dean truly happy. Sure, he’d like to be famous and rich, but most of all he just wants to play his music. He wants to be _himself_. He wants to be able to date guys and sing rock’n’roll and still work on cars with his father. But apparently you can’t do all that.

Dean knows that people say homosexuality is a sin. It says so in the Bible. Not that Dean himself is very hot on the Bible at all. Or on this alleged _God_. But he knows one thing at least. The Bible, the Quran and the Torah all preach love. So why is his love wrong? Why is his love not worth as much as other people’s love? Why can’t he walk the streets with a man, holding hands and laughing like he could with Lisa Braeden in high school?

If only he could live in ancient Greece. Apparently homosexuality was totally fine there and then. His High School History teacher had told them that with contempt and disgust, but Dean had secretly been thrilled. The ‘cradle of civilization’ accepted men like him. Although, it would be easier if everyone living now, in the damn 1950’s could just go all Greek-style and accept homosexuals.

He sighs and throws away the rag into the cleaning cabinet. No point in wishing for something that won’t happen. Even if it would be accepted he’d never find anyone even remotely interested in something more than just a one night stand. Not with him. He’s got nothing to offer the world, except muscle power. He’s a grunt like everyone else.

*** Castiel ***

_“He is so very unhappy,” Castiel sighs and looks away from the tear in time and space  Anael created for him, that allows him to look down on Earth. And more specifically on Dean._   _“Can’t I go and see him soon? All I want is to explain-“_

_“No, Cassie, you can’t. We’ve been through this. Until we say otherwise you and your cute butt stays here,” Gabriel mumbles from his permanent place in front of the fireplace._

_“But-“_

_“I said no!” Gabriel snaps and Castiel flinches at the tone. The Angel rolls his eyes. “What I mean is, we have more to tell you before you’re ready. You can’t just poof up here and there. There are rules and complications. So no, you can’t go just yet. And come on loverboy, it’s been three days, not three years.”_

_Castiel slouches in his trench coat and shrugs noncommittally. Gabriel is probably right. He doesn’t even know how this thing works.  He turns back to the tear by his feet and looks down at Dean again._

**_*_ Dean _*_**

When he’s finished with his chores at the Roadhouse it’s well after midnight, closer to morning than night in fact. He stretches his arms over his head and rolls his shoulders to relieve some of the tension. Not that it will help all that much, he suspects the tension has a lot more to do with a certain dead young man and an alcoholic of a father than working all night.

He locks up after himself and shrugs on his leather jacket over his grey T-shirt. He’s still not gotten all the blood out of his white one. It lies in his bathroom as a constant reminder every morning that something went awfully wrong. And that he couldn’t save him.

Tucked in between his thin sheets an hour later his mind drifts back towards the young man that died in his arms. He had known his name. He had known his face. He had known _him_. Dean decides to try and find this Sam Wesson the coming week. Not only going to the Library to find birth records or some shit like that, but actually finding him. It can’t be too hard, can it? How many Sam Wessons can there be in Lawrence?

Dean’s hand strays to the amulet hanging around his neck. In the past three days he’s learned the shape of it by heart. The horns, the mouth, the ears, the smooth back.

Every time he touches it he _feels_ something. He can’t put a finger on what exactly, but there is _something_ _there_. Like it’s something soft and calming surrounding him. It’s probably nothing more than his imagination, but he still falls asleep with his hand clutched around the amulet for the third night in a row. The last thing he thinks about before falling asleep is his mother’s words from when he was a small child.

_Angels are watching over you, Dean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments please?


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